


Passing Ships

by novemberhush



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: And Philip Lombard in that towel gave me ideas, And completely wrong, Attempted non-con at one point, Because I can't write that stuff to save my life, Because Thomas Barrow deserved a happy ending, But it's in there so please be advised if it's a possible trigger for you, But of course such an act is inherently violent, Copious amounts of fluff though, I kept it as restrained and non-violent as I could, M/M, Slight smut at one point, This Philip Lombard is from the 2015 BBC version of 'And Then There Were None', Well Aidan Turner always gives me ideas but that's a different story, Which I hated writing but was required for the story, but really not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:46:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novemberhush/pseuds/novemberhush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Barrow lives a precarious life, at the mercy of his employers and unable to love openly for fear of both persecution and prosecution. Not that he has anyone to love, that is, the lonely underbutler thinks, resigning himself to a life spent alone and in the shadows. But could the arrival of a devastatingly handsome guest at the Abbey be about to change all that? Well, it's not against the law to hope, is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing Ships

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so I don't even know where this all came from. Well, okay, I do. A gif set of Aidan Turner as Philip Lombard in the 2015 BBC adaptation of Agatha Christie's 'And Then There Were None' wearing nothing but a towel was floating about tumblr and a friend said, hey, imagine Thomas was that man in the towel, and I said, hey, imagine Thomas WITH that man in the towel, and, hey presto, this was what my fevered brain came up with. I own none of the characters/TV shows/books or anything else mentioned within. Except DeVore, and I really don't want him. I changed certain things from the last season of Downton and the time period for Philip and probably made our heroes much nicer than they ever were in their respective shows, but I hope you'll go with me on it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. :-)

 

"Well, Thomas will just have to do both of them then, won't he? There is no one else. Where is Thomas anyway?"

 

  
"Right here, Mr. Carson," said the man in question, appearing from the backyard and knowing instantly by the sneer on the other man's face that he was once again thinking what a filthy habit smoking was. Not that Thomas cared. It was the only pleasure he had these days. And the only vice. Mostly.

 

  
He still couldn't help letting the odd scathing remark pass his lips occasionally, but honestly sometimes (oftentimes) it was completely justified (you try living with a gaggle of gossiping, giggling maids, judgmental butlers and condescending employers and see how long you can keep your tongue in check).

 

  
But he had been trying to be a better man recently, had stopped plotting against everyone and finally accepted this was his lot in life. To be at the beck and call, the mercy and the whim, of his employers, his supposed 'betters'. And, of course, as soon as he had come to some semblance of terms with that he was faced with the looming threat of being let go. The family needed to make cutbacks and he was surplus to requirements. Oh, they weren't looking to throw him out into the street right away, but it had been made clear he would be advised to start seeking alternative employment. However, that didn't mean he had to relinquish his hard-won little victories, as he was quick to remind Carson.

 

  
"And it's Mr. Barrow now, if you please. We did agree upon extending me that courtesy, if you'll recall."

 

  
"Yes, yes, I'm not completely past it yet, _Mr_. Barrow. I remember exactly what was agreed upon. And I remember a lot more besides so don't go getting too brave with me just yet, my laddo."

 

  
"No, Mr. Carson," said Thomas, pushing down the resentment that once again threatened to bubble its way to the surface. _They were never going to give him a chance, were they?_ They were never going to let him forget his past misdeeds. And they were never going to forget that he was different from them. Once again Thomas found himself wondering why he even bothered trying to be a better man.

 

  
Fixing a tight smile on his undeniably attractive face, he swallowed the taste of bile building in his mouth and enquired, "What was it you needed me for anyway, Mr. Carson?"

 

  
"Yes, what indeed?" the older man replied sarcastically. Thomas clenched his fists behind his back and fought the urge to plant one of them squarely in the old bugger's insufferable face.

 

  
Giving in to that urge would warrant instant dismissal and no references. No references at his age would make it virtually impossible to get another job, especially in today's changing climate where the great houses and families were in decline and service was no longer the career for life it had once been. No job meant poverty and deprivation. And Thomas Barrow was not made for deprivation. Keeping that same smile firmly in place he said nothing and waited for the old codger to spit it out.

 

  
"It seems we're to have two extra gentlemen this week, Thom..., er, Mr. Barrow. A Mr. DeVore, who's coming to talk business with Mr. Branson seemingly, and a Mr. Lombard, and neither are bringing their own valet. Apparently they don't even _have_ their own valet!" he spluttered, obviously flabbergasted that two grown men should be able to dress themselves without another there to aid them. Imagine!

 

  
"Of course, that just furthers my suspicions as to whether the term 'gentleman' can be applied to either of them, given that they're part of that motor racing crowd Tom Branson has fallen in with these days!"

 

  
"Actually," interjected Mrs. Hughes in the lilting Scottish brogue Carson would never admit always sent a thrill through him, "Mr. Lombard is to be here at Lady Mary's invitation, not Mr. Branson's."

 

  
"Oh, I see," he said, caught wrong-footed at the mention of his favourite daughter of the house who could do no wrong in his eyes. "Well, in that case then I'm sure we can rest assured that at least one of these gentlemen will live up to the title."

 

  
"Hmm. I suppose we'll see," said Mrs. Hughes, the canny Scotswoman not quite so blind to the faults of the Blessed Lady Mary. "And in case you've forgotten it was Lady Mary that first got involved with the motor racing crowd, as you call them, when she set her cap for Mr. Talbot, so don't go blaming Tom Branson." Carson shot her a reproving look which she returned with a defiant one of her own. Thomas valiantly repressed the eye roll he desperately wanted to give free reign.

 

  
Turning back to Thomas, Carson continued, "With Mr. Bates away with His Lordship and Mr. Molesley taking a few days’ leave to care for his sick father you're going to have to act as valet to both of them, Mr. Barrow."

 

  
"But, Mr. Carson, surely there must be someone el.."

 

  
"There is no one else, Thomas. Oh, for pity's sake, don't say it, I know, it's Mr. Barrow!" he huffed out, raising his hands in a placating manner and preempting the inevitable rebuke on the tip of the underbutler's famously sharp tongue.

 

  
"There's no one else, Mr. Barrow. Andrew is a good lad,” (Thomas could practically hear the ‘despite your best efforts to corrupt him’ that Carson left unsaid), "but he's still only a footman and not yet ready to assume the duties of a gentleman's valet. You are our only option," he said, not even trying to conceal his contempt at the state of affairs that left Thomas Barrow the only option for anything, "and if you ever want to be butler in a household such as Downton you're going to have to learn to roll up your sleeves and pitch in when it's all hands on deck."

 

  
"Yes, Mr. Carson," Thomas replied sweetly, his thoughts anything but. Damn Lady Mary for inviting more toffee-nosed buffoons to a house already coming down with them, all because she was trying to impress her new husband, Henry Talbot. Thomas wasn't blind to his charms either, but he had had his fill of entitled ex-public schoolboys. With the exception of the dear departed Edward Courtenay, and possibly the late Matthew Crawley, they were a shower of overgrown, overprivileged (and occasionally oversexed) bastards. The scales had long since fallen from Thomas' eyes with regards as to how gentlemanly the upper classes were. He had been subjected to their 'gentlemanly' treatment more than once in the past. Promised the world in the dark of night, then not worth a glance in the light of day.

 

  
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of activity, the servants working as one, each a cog in a well-oiled machine, under the command of Sergeant Major Carson, preparing everything for the week of festivities that lay before them. Or rather their employers. For the staff of the household it would be a week of extra work, late nights and early mornings. Nothing festive about it. As for Lord and Lady Grantham, they were visiting Her Ladyship's family in America, before dropping in on the newlywed émigrés, Lady Rose and Atticus. His Lordship had taken his valet Bates with him, leaving Thomas both glad to be shot of the sanctimonious prick for a few weeks while cursing the extra workload he now had to assume in his absence.

 

  
Baxter, Thomas' only ally in the house it felt like since the others had managed to turn young Andy against him, had accompanied Her Ladyship as ladies' maid. Thomas was no stranger to loneliness, but its teeth had been particularly sharp lately. He missed Edward, he really missed Jimmy (the promised letters had never materialised; Thomas was not surprised), he missed Andy despite the fact they saw each other every day, he missed Baxter and the late Lady Sybil and his long dead mother. He even missed that bitch O'Brien! At least when she had been there he had had someone to talk to. Until their falling out anyway. Now he had no one. Baxter tried, and he appreciated her efforts, but every time she was nice to him, tried to get him to open up to her, he remembered the misery he had put her through in the aftermath of Jimmy's departure and his own disastrous attempts to change his nature with those toxic injections, and he was overwhelmed with guilt and pushed her away. _Guilt! I bet none of them think even I'm capable of feeling that_ , he often thought bitterly.

 

  
In the afternoon the car was dispatched to the railway station to collect these two new guests, the last of the party to arrive in Yorkshire. When they reached Downton Thomas was sent out to help with their bags while Mr. Carson puffed himself up and went to greet them. Thomas went to the rear of the vehicle to remove the luggage. He handed two of the suitcases to Andy, the young footman taking them without meeting Thomas' eyes. Thomas felt the little stab of hurt under his ribs. He had tried to never be anything less than a friend to Andy, but never anything more either. He had never harboured any what Mr. Carson would have called "foul" intentions towards him, had simply tried to be his friend, and now he was being treated like some depraved degenerate that was just waiting to pounce on poor, innocent Andy and strip him of his virtue. And Andy seemed all too quick to believe it, not even staying in the same room long enough with him for Thomas to explain.

 

  
_Don't flatter yourself, Sonny Jim_ , he thought, _you're not my type._ Of course, they all assumed any man was his type. That was just how they thought men like him operated, wasn't it?

 

  
Lost in his own gloomy thoughts, Thomas reached absentmindedly for the next two cases and almost jumped out of his skin when his ungloved hand closed around the warm flesh of another. Leaping back, he found himself looking into a pair of brown eyes a more fanciful man might have described as 'breathtaking'. Maybe Thomas was more fanciful than he thought because the word took up residence in his brain and refused to leave.

 

  
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," the new arrival said softly, addressing Thomas in a rich, deep voice, honey smooth and just as sweet. As well spoken as any English gentleman, but Thomas surmised the accent was Irish. "I thought I'd take my own bags inside, save you the bother."

 

  
_Who's this?_ , thought Thomas incredulously, suddenly wide-eyed and wanting. Realising he was staring open-mouthed like a slack-jawed kitchen maid ( _be kind_ , the better angels of his nature chastised) who'd just seen Valentino in the village, he pulled himself together.

 

  
"No, no, sir, it's fine. Really. I can manage. And I'm the one who should be apologising. My fault entirely. I was lost in other thoughts."

 

  
A dark, perfect eyebrow arched above one of those eyes Thomas wanted to go swimming in and he longed to trace it with his fingers before plunging them into that mane of hair and pulling him towards him, crushing those beautiful lips against his own in a bruising kiss. _Jesus, where had that come from??_

 

  
"Sounds intriguing," the stranger drawled. His voice dropping slyly, he added, "Penny for them?"

 

  
_Is he flirting with me? No, of course not, don't be ridiculous. He's just making polite conversation, that's all, and I'm reading too much into it. Again. And even if he was interested once he'd had his fun I'd just be cast aside like last night's worn shirt. Again._

 

  
"I fear I'd be robbing you, sir, at even half the price. Nothing very interesting ever goes on up here," he said, tapping a finger against his temple.

 

  
"Now that I don't believe," said the handsome newcomer. "I get instincts about people. I've an instinct about you." Leaning in, he whispered, "I think you're pretending."

 

  
Thomas met those exquisite eyes again and saw something spark there, but what it was he couldn't be sure. Danger, maybe. Confidence, surety. And... _want?_

 

  
_No, stop it, you idiot! That's just wishful thinking, is all. And that's the most dangerous kind. Makes you see things that aren't really there. Like with Jimmy. If you hadn't been so caught up in wishing and hoping you'd have seen straight through O'Brien's twisted scheme. Don't go making a fool of yourself again, and over some toff no less. No matter how bloody gorgeous he is._

 

  
"I think we all pretend a little, don't we, sir?" Thomas rallied, not quite reduced to the level of an simpleminded Ivy or Daisy yet. _So much for kindness,_ his inner voice piped up.

 

  
"Well, you got me there, Mr...?"

 

  
"Barrow."

 

  
"Mr. Barrow. That we do. That we do," he grinned, a shark's smile. It was predatory and blinding, and Thomas forgot to breathe for a moment.

 

  
"I'm Philip, by the way. Philip Lombard."

 

  
So this was Lady Mary's gentleman visitor then. _He had to give it to her,_ Thomas thought, _she had taste._

 

  
"Welcome to Downton, Mr. Lombard."

 

  
"Call me Philip."

 

  
Thomas' heart stuttered in his chest. He had heard those exact words once before. _And look_ _how that turned out,_ he reminded himself, an image of that other Philip, the Duke of Crowborough, flashing before him. How he looked right before he said goodbye to Thomas forever, walking away while Thomas' dreams of the future they could have had lay shattered around him. He wasn't going down that path again.

 

  
_And what kind of gentleman asked servants to call him by his first name anyway?_ Perhaps Carson's initial suspicions on just how gentlemanly these latecomers were weren't so far off the mark after all...

 

  
"I don't think my employers would look favourably on that, Mr. Lombard." _And Carson damn sure wouldn't._

 

  
"And I don't think you really care what your employers look favourably on, or anyone else for that matter." There was that damn smile again. Thomas felt his stomach twist with want.

 

  
"Mr. Barrow!" Carson's bellow cut in, bringing him back to Earth and he reluctantly dragged his eyes away from Philip's. _Mr. Lombard's,_ he chided himself.

 

  
"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

 

  
"Stop idling there, and bring Mr. Lombard's cases inside at once!"

 

  
The look he gave Thomas implied he knew exactly what thoughts the visitor had inspired in him, and Thomas flushed with embarrassment. It wasn't like he was going to act on them. He wasn't stupid, he'd learnt his lesson. The old duffer didn't have to display his disdain for Thomas quite so openly. He never needed reminding of how "revolting" Carson found him.

 

  
Again Philip reached for the cases, but Thomas stilled him with a few quiet words. "You better let me, Mr. Lombard. We wouldn't want to be responsible for Mr. Carson keeling over and dying of shock at seeing a gentleman actually carry his own luggage, now would we?"

 

  
The laugh that broke through those lips was heady and exhilarating and somehow Thomas already knew he would never get tired of hearing it. The dark eyes sparkled with mischief, looking at Thomas like they shared a secret. Again breathing proved difficult for the underbutler. If this kept up he was going to have to quit smoking or at the very least get Dr. Clarkson to check him over for asthma. Gracing Philip with a small, conspiratorial smile in return Thomas took the cases and headed inside.

 

  
The party was to be a large one. Philip and Richard DeVore, a young man from an old family, late additions to the guest list, were relegated to two of the less desirable, more out of the way bedrooms (although of course in a place as grand as Downton Abbey, desirability was relative).

 

  
Carson informed Philip that the other guests, Mr. DeVore included, were having a drink in the drawing room. If he would like to join them his cases would be taken to his room. He also extended Lady Mary's apologies for not being there to receive him herself, but estate business had called her away unexpectedly for the afternoon and Mr. Talbot had been required to accompany her.

 

  
Philip graciously assured Carson no apology was necessary. He and Mr. Barrow here had been most excellent stand-ins for the good lady. Thomas detected a hint of devilry in his voice and suppressed a smile. Carson also seemed aware that the gentleman found something amusing, but he wasn't sure what. He knew he didn't like it though. When Carson stepped away for a moment to deal with an enquiry from another guest, Philip leaned in close and whispered in Thomas' ear, "If I know Henry I'd hazard a guess the only urgent business that called the newlyweds away was trying to find an empty cottage or cosy barn on the estate they haven't christened yet."

 

  
"If I know Lady Mary I'd hazard a guess you're right," Thomas shot back without missing a beat, before realising what he'd just said and visibly paling at the thought of it getting back to Lady Mary, or worse, Carson! The deep belly laugh that emanated from the man beside him made it seem almost worth it though, and reassured him his impertinence would go unreported.

 

  
When Carson returned, impressive eyebrows raised in consternation at the still laughing Irishman, Philip rejected the drink in favour of getting settled in his room and followed Thomas as he led the way upstairs. Thomas felt those fathomless eyes on him the whole time, burning a hole in his back, as they made their way through the myriad hallways and corridors until they reached the room at the rear of the house. It was comfortable enough, if not quite as grand as some of the others in the Abbey.

 

  
Thomas laid the suitcases on the bed and offered to unpack them, but Philip dismissed the notion, saying he was sure Thomas must have enough to do with all these guests without waiting hand and foot on him. He would do it himself. The busy servant, who did indeed have enough to be getting on with, was both grateful for the consideration and yet disappointed not to have a reason to stay longer in the room with this Adonis.

 

  
Philip enquired about the possibility of taking a bath before dinner, citing the need to freshen up after his long journey. Thomas provided direction to the nearest bathroom, assuring the visitor that the water would be hot and informing him that with the exception of Mr. DeVore, who was also assigned a room in this part of the house, he would have it all to himself. He studiously avoided thinking of Philip naked (and wet).

 

  
They arranged a time for Thomas to come back to help the other man dress for dinner. "Dinner jacket's fine tonight, Mr. Lombard. With the Lord and Ladyship abroad and the Dowager Countess visiting her daughter, Lady Rosamund, in London, the younger generation of the house aren't as formal so no need for tails."

 

  
"Thank God for that. I can't stand those penguin suits," Philip smirked, and Thomas did likewise.

 

  
Still he lingered though, making a show of carefully checking everything was as it should be in the room. _Stop dragging your heels and get out of here. He's not interested in you, and even if he was, you're not going to let another 'gentleman' use you for his own amusement ever again. Plus, if you're not back downstairs in the next five minutes Carson will have the vice squad up here checking you're not corrupting Lady Mary's new friend._

 

  
Finally he turned to the guest, who had been studying him with those shrewd dark eyes, and enquired, "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Lombard?" He tried his level best not to make it sound like an innuendo, he really did.

 

  
The slight quirk at the corner of that luscious mouth let him know he'd failed.

 

  
"Yes, Mr. Barrow, there is," the guest replied, that voice no longer just as sweet as honey, but as thick too. Loaded with something that made Thomas' insides quake, but which he didn't want to think too much about lest he lose his head and do something mad. Like throwing himself into those undoubtedly strong arms he sensed would be all too welcoming.

 

  
"When we're alone in this room, as we're likely to be many times over the next week, I want you to call me Philip."

 

  
" _Please_ ," he added.

 

  
Thomas felt as if the ground beneath his feet was shifting. He hadn't heard that word in a long time, not directed at him anyway, his being unworthy in so many people's eyes of the respect and consideration it afforded. And he'd never heard it in that tone. The want, no, _the need_ , he infused that one simple word with shook Thomas to his core. Somehow this bright star that had just crashed into his life, utterly masculine, utterly beautiful, had made Thomas feel more valued and seen in the last few minutes than the rest of the world put together had in years, maybe even ever.

 

  
The life of any servant revolved around fading into the background, not standing out or drawing attention to themselves, merely waiting for the moment when their master or mistress would summon them forth to do their bidding. For a man like Thomas this was almost intolerable. He was born to be seen, to stand out, to wait on no man's orders.

 

  
But he had also been born the son of a lowly clockmaker. At first it was assumed he would follow in his father's footsteps, and truth be told he wouldn't have minded that life. His father had taught him everything he needed to know about the business and besides, he actually enjoyed the work, as well as the thought of one day being his own boss. Of course, that had been before his father had discovered the truth about his nature.

 

  
"Unnatural," his father had called it when he stumbled upon Thomas and the boy next door in a state of undress and deep in each other's arms. He had put him out that night with only a suitcase of clothes, a few shillings in his pocket, two black eyes and the words, "I'm only glad your mother isn't alive to see what kind of deviant she delivered into the world," ringing in his ears. Jack, the boy next door, wasn't prepared to leave with him. The first of many romantic disappointments Thomas would face over the years. After that, if he wanted to eat, his options were limited. Service it was.

 

  
So to be seen at all, let alone as he really was, and understood, truly understood, with no judgment, no scorn, just acceptance, was everything Thomas always wanted but never knew he needed. Until now. And there was more than just acceptance and understanding in the way Philip was looking at him. There was something much more. Oh, desire, certainly, but still more...

 

  
_Ridiculous, foolish thoughts! Stop it this instant!_

 

"I'm not sure I can do that, Phil.., I mean, Mr. Lombard." _Damn it, pull yourself together!_

 

  
The smile that now played on those lips he'd already memorised every line and curve of was sad and sardonic, and one Thomas recognized. It was a smile that bore its recipient no ill will or resentment, but instead mocked its giver for his foolishness in hoping, even for a second, for something he could never have. He had favoured Jimmy with just such a smile many times. Thomas instantly wanted to kiss it away, wanted to see it replaced by that shining, confident, wolfish grin of before.

 

  
"As you wish, Mr. Barrow."

 

  
"Thomas," he suddenly heard himself blurt out. "Call me Thomas. Philip."

 

  
Like the sun returning after a summer storm the clouds parted and that smile from before reappeared, sending the sad one packing quicker than a shyster skipping out on a hotel bill. Thomas felt his heart clench.

 

  
"Thomas," he said, rolling the name around in his mouth as if savouring it. "It suits you."

 

  
He strode towards the underbutler, stopping only a few inches away. "You're a doubter, aren't you, Thomas? That's all right," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "I have all week to make a believer of you."

 

  
Thomas' breath caught in his throat. He wasn't sure it would take as long as a week. They were so close he could feel the heat coming off the other man's body. He could smell him, his scent warm and spicy. Inviting. And then he stepped away again. Thomas felt the coolness acutely where his warmth had been just seconds before. A shiver running through him, he excused himself and left, trying not to break out into a run in his haste to be away from this beautiful bewitcher.

 

  
Once more in the safety of the hallway he felt his knees threaten to give way and leant against the wall for support, sucking huge lungfuls of air into his body in an attempt to quell his racing heart, and running a hand frantically through his perfectly coiffed hair. _What was_ _happening to him?_ He'd never experienced want like this before, not even with Jimmy, who he had hitherto supposed the love of his life. Now he wasn't so sure anymore. _Christ, he_ _needed a cigarette._

 

_Ye gods, but you're a fool, Thomas Barrow! You only laid eyes on him less than half an hour ago! That's not love, it's lust. That's all. Just lust. Don't go trying to dress it up as anything more._

 

  
Gathering himself, he found his legs again and went back to his duties. But all the while there was a quiet yet persistent little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously familiar, smooth as Irish whiskey and just as intoxicating, whispering he'd be a believer yet.

 

  
That same silky voice was still whispering in Thomas' ear later as he made his way down the same hallway, first to Mr. DeVore's room to help him dress, then to Philip's.

 

  
DeVore was about a decade younger than himself, Thomas guessed. Mid-twenties, blond hair, pale blue eyes, not far off Thomas' own shade, with a full mouth, defined jaw and high cheekbones. He was striking looking, no doubt, Thomas thought, but there was something cold, cruel and hard about his beauty; something harsh. _There are those who have said the same about you,_ Thomas thought, but they did him an injustice. Yes, at first glance Thomas' beauty could be viewed as cool, even cruel, those Wedgwood blue eyes, icy and aloof, the alabaster skin, like a Greek statue, beautiful but seemingly cold to the touch, making him seem remote and otherworldly. But look closer and those eyes had more in common with the famous ceramic than just the colour they shared, both forged in fire, but still delicate and vulnerable to breakage. The skin was actually soft, warm and pliable. Thomas was flesh and blood, made to be held and loved every day, not some statue shaped to be admired occasionally, but left to gather dust and cobwebs the rest of the time. No, Thomas was not made of marble. But DeVore? He was granite. Hard, spoiled, the only son of a baronet, and a man used to getting what he wanted.

 

  
He made no attempt to be civil to Thomas, merely treated him as the convenience he thought he was, there to make his life easier, to cater to his wants and needs, and to have none of his own. Most of the time he didn't even pay Thomas the respect of looking at him, but once or twice he caught the baronet's son running his cold eyes over him, assessing, weighing him up. Thomas couldn't help but compare the glacial blue eyes to the warm brown ones of the man in the room down the hall. The difference was staggering. Philip's glances made Thomas' skin tingle. DeVore's made it crawl. He was glad when he was finally dismissed.

 

  
Knocking on Philip's door but receiving no response Thomas was about to knock again when he heard a voice behind him call out, "I'm here, Thomas," causing him to jump with surprise, not for the first time that day. He heard a low chuckle and want pooled in his stomach. And that was before he turned and found Philip standing before him, naked ( _and wet,_ his treacherous brain supplied) but for a skimpy white towel protecting his modesty. Not that modesty seemed to be something Philip had much use for.

 

  
Once more Thomas found himself struck dumb, his mouth seemingly incapable of doing anything but hanging open in awe, his eyes unable to stop roaming over the firm, honed body before him, drinking in every sinew, every muscle, every inch of exposed skin.

 

  
Time seemed to come to a standstill; impossible though he knew that was. The son of a clockmaker even now, whether he liked it or not, he knew better than most that time stopped for no man. Once again, however, _this_ man before him made him question what he supposed he knew. And once again those eyes were trained on him, hawkish, perceptive, _longing_.

 

  
"I'm afraid when I unpacked I discovered I had forgotten my robe," Philip said, finally breaking the thick silence that had settled around them. How long had they been standing here like this, Thomas unable to tear his eyes away from this man who seemed equally entranced? It felt like an eternity, but could only have been a few seconds. Time worked differently around this enigmatic stranger who paradoxically somehow didn't really feel like either an enigma or a stranger to Thomas.

 

  
"I didn't want to frighten the horses, or rather the housemaids, but I remembered you said there was only one other gentleman staying in this part of the house so I risked it. Looks like you caught me though."

 

  
Thomas nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to form coherent words. Well, except maybe, "Take me now." And that would be inappropriate. Then again there was a 6ft Irishman with twinkling eyes and a roguish smile standing before him in nothing but a towel, in the hallowed hallways of the Abbey no less. The range of what might be deemed 'inappropriate' had shrunk radically in the last few hours.

 

  
"Shall we?" Philip asked, gesturing to the bedroom door.

 

  
_God, yes,_ Thomas wanted to say, but thankfully, his recently errant brain showed up again just in time to stop him embarrassing himself and he realised Philip meant they should enter the room.

 

  
Thomas opened the door and stood back to let Philip enter first.

 

  
"Oh no, after you, Thomas. I insist."

 

  
Hesitating for just a second Thomas decided it was futile to argue and made his way inside. He heard the door close behind them and steeled himself for the upcoming test. Because that's what this was he thought; a test. From God, the devil, or both. And it was one he had to pass.

 

  
Turning to face his own forbidden fruit his already naturally pale complexion blanched even further. The towel had gone! He froze, stuck somewhere between desire and panic. _Look away!! LOOK AWAY!!!_ His brain was screaming at him, but the rest of his body was refusing to comply. Philip seemed completely unaware of the turmoil he was responsible for creating in Thomas.

 

  
"Really, Thomas, you act like you've never seen a naked man before."

 

  
All right, so maybe not _completely_  unaware.

 

  
With a truly Herculean effort Thomas managed to will his body to turn his back on this temptation in the form of ( _a beautiful, perfect_ ) man once again, despite the objections of his thirsting eyes, watering mouth, and other curious and attentive parts of his body further south which had perked up significantly and let their interest be known in the last few minutes. The formerly lily white skin now glowed poppy red, whether with embarrassment, desire, or a mixture of the two, even Thomas himself did not know.

 

  
"Mr. Lombard, please..."

 

  
"Now, Thomas, I thought we agreed, in this room you call me Philip, remember?" The voice was soft, kind, and obviously amused. It was also much closer to Thomas than he expected. He didn't dare risk a glance over his shoulder. Every nerve in his body was on high alert and he couldn't help the startled whimper that escaped his lips when he felt a gentle hand settle on his shoulder.

 

  
"Hey, hey, it's all right. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you, or make you uncomfortable. I just assumed as a gentleman's valet you would be used to this sort of thing."

 

  
Something reared up in Thomas. _Used to this sort of thing?_ What the hell was that supposed to mean?? Did this 'gentleman' think he was just there to be used and disposed off at his convenience and that of every other toff who entered this house and felt like slumming it with the help?

 

  
Shrugging off the warm hand that still lay upon his shoulder he rounded on the man who only for circumstance of birth was held to be his superior.

 

  
"Oh, you just _assumed_ that, did you, _Philip?_ That I would be _used to this sort of thing?_ And why would that be, eh? Because you assume any footman or valet or housemaid or stable boy or whoever is just there for _your_  amusement, to cater to _your_ whims, is that it? God forbid they should want to assert their own autonomy and decide who they do and don't wish to see prancing about in the altogether!"

 

  
Now it was Philip's turn to look startled. He took a step back and Thomas vaguely registered that he had already covered himself back up with the towel, must have already done so when he placed his hand on Thomas' shoulder. Thomas' shoulder which even now could feel the tender touch that had branded it Philip's forever.

 

  
He even had the good grace to look embarrassed; more than that, ashamed. Thomas, now calmer after his outburst, suddenly felt regret, knowing he had put that expression on the face he already loved more than any other. Even Jimmy's paled in comparison.

 

  
Philip's visage was made to be bold, proud, confident. Not embarrassed, ashamed and apologetic, which was surely how it appeared now. Once again Thomas wanted to tear his own tongue out, for having spoken words that caused this welcome intruder into his life pain. He groped wildly for the right words to say to remedy the situation while Philip looked away, clearly grasping for words of his own.

 

  
"I'm sorry," they proclaimed as one, each taking a step towards the other.

 

  
There was silence for a few moments then they both burst out laughing. Again, Thomas knew in his bones he would never tire of that sound, never tire of Philip's laugh, never tire of Philip. _Stop it,_ he thought desperately, already knowing it was too late, that he was done for.

 

  
When the laughter subsided neither knew what to say, but stood gazing at each other once more. It was Thomas who finally broke the silence.

 

  
"I'm sorry, Philip, I know you didn't mean anything by it. I'm just a little oversensitive is all. I get ‘ideas above my station' from time to time, Mr. Carson says, and sometimes other gentlemen have tried to remind me of my status and put me in my place. Which, funnily enough, always seems to be _beneath_ them. But, you've done nothing to me and I shouldn't have snapped at you."

 

  
"No, it's fine, Thomas. It's I who should be apologising to you. I've never been shy. Plus, as a former military man, I'm used to being in close quarters with other men and being in various states of undress around each other was not something unusual."

 

  
Thomas wasn't easily surprised, but his eyebrows shot up now. "So, what, officers walk around in the buff with each other all the time?" he exclaimed before he could stop himself.

 

  
Philip grinned. "Well, I wasn't always an officer, Thomas. May I tell you a secret?"

 

  
Thomas nodded eagerly and found himself stepping in closer as if to stop anyone overhearing what Philip had to say next even though they were the only two souls in the room.

 

  
"I started out as a lowly private, fresh off the boat from Ireland, and made my way up the ranks until I made a bit of a name for myself with some of my exploits and when I didn't get myself killed I got my commission. I studied every officer I met, most of them my 'social betters', and picked up their habits and mannerisms and mimicked how they spoke. Soon those who didn't know any better supposed I was from one of the respectable old Anglo-Irish families. But I'm not quite as high-born as people assume me to be. And I'm afraid I rarely challenge their assumptions. It suits me to let people like your Lady Mary think I'm from their world. It earns me weeklong visits to charming country estates in Yorkshire for one."

 

  
That explained a great deal in Thomas' mind - the easy way Philip had around him, his unassuming manner and willingness to do things for himself, even his invitation to Thomas to call him by his first name. He was silent, mulling over this new piece of information.

 

  
Philip seemed a little nervous suddenly. "I hope I haven't disappointed you, Thomas. I didn't mean to deceive you. It just makes life easier and infinitely more pleasant to let people assume I'm a toff. But I wanted you to know the truth."

 

  
Thomas was touched and of course he wasn't disappointed. He'd have done the same if he could've pulled it off.

 

  
"Thank you, Philip. And I'm not disappointed. I'm rather relieved, in fact," he found himself saying.

 

  
"Relieved?"

 

  
"Yes, there's already enough toffee-nosed bastards around here as it is."

 

  
Philip laughed again and Thomas wanted to bottle the sound.

 

  
"Well, in that case I'm glad not to have added my name to the list. But I suppose I really should think about putting some clothes on or I'll be late for dinner and I wouldn't want to keep any of the toffee-nosed bastards waiting."

 

  
_Let them wait,_ thought Thomas. He never wanted either one of them to leave this room again. But real life weighed in and he set about fetching Philip's clothes for the evening, as the other man discreetly put on some underwear. Soon he was helping him into his shirt and despite the fact Philip was perfectly capable of doing it himself Thomas found himself buttoning it for him. He did so slowly, found himself looking forward to the time later when he would be unbuttoning it again. When he had finished he let his hands loiter a moment, palms flat against the plain of Philip's chest. It was long enough for Philip to raise his hands and curl them around Thomas'. "I know my secret's safe with you, Thomas."

 

  
Thomas ducked his head shyly a moment before raising it again and nodding, eyes shining, smile soft, not daring to speak for fear of what he would reveal. He had a feeling his face gave him away anyway.

 

  
Philip looked down at the white, fingerless glove Thomas wore on his left hand to cover the scar left by the bullet that had torn through it in the trenches not so very many years ago really. "The war?" His voice was soft and full of understanding. Thomas just nodded. Neither felt the need to dwell upon the subject. They had both been there, both seen the horrors, still saw them in their dreams sometimes, there was nothing new they could tell each other about that time. Maybe one day, but not this one.

 

  
Returning the nod Philip reluctantly let go of one hand and reached for the bow tie lying across the bed. Rather sheepishly he asked, "Would you mind? I never quite mastered the art of tying one of these."

 

  
"Not at all, Philip. That is what I'm here for after all."

 

  
"No. No, it's not, Thomas," he said, mystifyingly, voice like syrup, golden, sweet and thick. "But thank you."

 

  
_Why else am I here?_ Deep down Thomas knew the reason (or hoped he did) why he was there, why Philip wanted him there, and it had nothing to do with his job. He was there because they both needed to be close. He suspected if it had been any other valet that had showed up at his door this evening Philip would have waved them off, dismissed them with a polite, "It's fine. I can manage by myself, thank you." But not Thomas. Thomas he wanted there.

 

  
Their fingers grazed against each other as Thomas took the tie from Philip and they both felt something like electricity crackle between them.

 

  
Thomas fixed Philip with an intense stare, ice blue eyes now more akin to a roiling sea. "Why don't I show you how it's done?" he said, voice low, but full of heat.

 

  
Their other hands still rested on Philip's chest, allowing Thomas to feel as well as hear the hitch in Philip's breathing. The underbutler turned his fingers so that they were entwined with Philip's and led the visitor over to the cheval mirror in the corner of the room. Nothing seemed unusual about walking across a bedroom hand in hand with this guest of the Abbey. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to Thomas.

 

  
Thomas turned Philip to stand in front of the mirror while he stepped up close behind him. At nearly 6'2" Thomas stood almost a full two inches in height taller than the Irishman. He looked at them both in the mirror over Philip's right shoulder. Placing a hand on each of the broad, steady shoulders in front of him he leaned in a little closer.

 

  
"Let's see if I can't teach you a thing or two then, shall we?"

 

  
Thomas felt a little shiver run through the former soldier. He couldn't help but hope it was at the feel of his warm breath caressing Philip's cheek, as he whispered softly in his ear. Philip nodded assent, dumbstruck, it now his turn to distrust his voice, it seemed. Thomas was gratified to notice all the little hairs on the back of his neck were standing to attention like a company of wiry soldiers awaiting inspection. He resisted the urge to nuzzle into them.

 

  
Turning his gaze towards the mirror Thomas spent a moment drinking in their reflection, marvelling at how right they looked together, (unaware Philip was doing the same). Little tremors ran down his own spine, before he reached around with the thin strip of fabric, carefully tying it into a perfect bow; talking Philip through every little dip and tuck and loop. He wasn't sure how much of it Philip was taking in though as his eyes never left Thomas’ in the mirror.

  
"There. All done. You look... perfect." Thomas could feel his chest heaving against Philip's back and knew he should step away, but he couldn't quite seem to pry his fingers from where they had settled on Philip's collar. Philip raised his hands and once again took Thomas' slender fingers in his strong ones and slowly turned around, never letting go of the now shaking underbutler.

 

  
Looking deep in Thomas' eyes he brought the trembling hands to his lips and placed soft kisses on the fingertips of each one. Unable to stop himself Thomas let out a small gasp, overwhelmed by the tenderness he saw in the dark eyes locked on his pale ones and the sensation of Philip's velvet lips pressing feather light kisses to his fingertips. He felt hot breath trickle over his knuckles and every nerve in his body sang.

 

  
"Philip," he breathed, his head falling forward to rest against the other man's. "We... we can't."

 

  
"Yes! Yes, we can! We can do anything we want, Thomas!"

 

  
His hands let go of Thomas' and flew to his hips instead, pulling the underbutler flush against him. Thomas gasped again, louder this time, and threw his arms around Philip's neck to steady himself, caught unawares by the Irishman's quick, jerking movement. Once again their gazes met and this time Thomas saw want blazing bright as day in eyes surely made for moonlit nights. He knew his own eyes were burning just as fiercely. He only had time to utter a fleeting, " _Oh, God..._ ", before Philip's lips crashed into his and he gave in to temptation, diving headlong into their mutual desire. Surrender had never felt more victorious.

 

  
The kiss was urgent, passionate, full of desperate need; it was not tentative or unsure like all of Thomas' other first kisses. There was no uncertainty here. Philip wanted him, and he wanted Philip in return.

 

  
Thomas forgot all sense of time and place and propriety. Philip _needed_ him, and he needed Philip. It wasn't until he felt those warm hands that had so gently held his earlier start to unbutton his shirt, that he came back to his senses.

 

  
He dragged his lips away from Philip's, brought his hands up to still the busy ones hard at work on his buttons. "Philip, no..."

 

  
Philip stiffened at once, stopped his motions. "No?"

 

  
The voice was small, desolate and tore at Thomas' heart.

 

  
"I mean, not now. You have to get downstairs for pre-dinner drinks with the other guests and I have to get downstairs and change into my livery and prepare to serve dinner with the other servants."

 

  
"To hell with dinner," said Philip, leaning in and stealing another kiss. "To hell with the other guests." Another kiss. "To hell with the other servants." Another kiss...

 

  
" _No!_ We have to go, Philip!" Thomas pushed against the chest he longed to wake up curled against every day for the rest of his life, fighting the waves of desire that rolled over him, threatening to pull him under again. "Even if _you_ could send your excuses to get out of dinner, _I_ can't! This is my job, Philip! My livelihood! I'm on thin ice here. Carson hates me as it is, he'd jump at any chance to be rid of me. He's already told me it wouldn't hurt to keep my eyes open for another position elsewhere. Do you understand? It's my job!"

 

  
"Yes, yes, I understand. It's all right, Thomas, it's all right. We'll go." He brushed his lips over Thomas' once more, and smiled. "Thomas. Sweet Thomas. _My_ Thomas."

 

  
Thomas moaned and gave in once more, his hands buried in that luxuriant mane of dark hair, lips pressed hard against Philip's. When he finally came up for air again, he hid his flushed face in that same mane, whispering breathlessly, "My Philip." And somehow he knew it was true. No matter what happened from here on in there could never be anyone else for him. For either of them. In this moment he knew it was true.

 

  
"This is madness," muttered Thomas.

 

  
"Beautiful madness," Philip responded, and Thomas felt this man who had swept all others from his heart in a single day, tighten his hold around him.

 

  
"Can you... will you...," Philip stuttered out, sounding suddenly hesitant, as if afraid he was asking too much. But Thomas knew exactly what he was asking and there was nothing hesitant about his reply.

 

  
"Yes, I'll come to you tonight. Of course I'll come to you."

 

  
The smile that lit up Philip's face, made Thomas sure he had never seen anything so beautiful before.

 

  
They separated grudgingly and began to straighten out jackets and shirts and dishevelled hair. Thomas held Philip's dinner jacket out for him to slip into.

 

  
"And to think," said Philip, "I almost accepted an invitation from someone I never met to go to some God forsaken island with a bunch of strangers this week."

 

  
"Really? Sounds intriguing. Why didn't you go?" Thomas tucked a loose lock of hair that had fallen forward across Philip's face behind his ear as he spoke.

 

  
"I don't know," said Philip, pondering, and slipping his fingers through Thomas' again where they had settled on the side of his head after fixing the stray lock. He turned his face and delicately kissed Thomas' palm before continuing, "Something just felt off about the whole deal. Not quite right. And then I bumped into your Lady Mary again. We'd met just once, ages ago at a dinner in London, but somehow she remembered me. When she discovered I was an old friend of her new husband she insisted I join the party this week and, well, here, I am."

 

  
"Lady Mary, eh? I can understand her remembering you. I imagine you're hard to forget. And she always did have an eye for the pretty ones. But maybe she had reason to remember you for more than just your pretty face?" Thomas had meant it to sound like a joke but he couldn't contain the jealousy that seeped into his words.

 

  
Philip laughed and tugged Thomas into an embrace. "You needn't worry, my doubting Thomas. She's not my type; she never was."

 

  
"And what exactly is your type?"

 

  
"Oh, the looks of a matinée idol, and the attitude to go with it. Ivory skin, ebony hair. About 6'2", eyes of blue." The wolfish grin again.

 

  
"Get away with you, you could charm the birds from the trees, you could."

 

  
"Silver-tongued devil, that's me."

 

  
"Well, I for one am very glad you declined that other invitation."

 

  
He fixed Thomas with those smouldering eyes. "Me too. I guess I was always supposed to end up here. With you."

 

  
Thomas blushed, but couldn't help the shy smile that spread across his face. "Sweet talker."

 

  
Philip grinned and pulled him into one last kiss before they left the room. "Only to you."

 

  
Thomas rolled his eyes, but grinned back broadly. "I bet you say that to all the boys." As he reached his hand out to open the door something occurred to him. "Wait a minute, _Mr._ Lombard! That could have been Henry Talbot you were describing just now!"

 

Philip grinned, "It could," dragging Thomas back into his arms for another passionate kiss, "but it wasn't."

 

Thomas smiled, mollified. Well, until Philip's grin grew impossibly wider and he teased, "Besides, Henry's eyes are green."

 

  
Thomas batted at his arm, but there was no real heat behind it. He couldn't help casting his eyes downward and biting on his bottom lip though. "But you and he... you, ah... you never..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, but raised his eyes, full of uncertainty, to look at Philip.

 

  
Philip's grin instantly vanished and his whole face softened. Once again his arms drew Thomas closer. "No, we never. Henry is a good friend, a good man, and, yes, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed he was good-looking too, but there was never any real attraction there. I admire him as you admire anything beautiful, but only in the abstract, like a painting you know is technically very well done but doesn't move you in the way another one does. Just as art is subjective, his beauty isn't the kind that stirs my soul and sets my heart racing. I've only met one man, one person, one masterpiece, who possesses that beauty, that power over me." He smiled a smile so devastatingly gentle it made Thomas want to weep. He leaned in and whispered in Thomas' ear. "That man is you, in case you were still doubting, my sweet Thomas." Then he pulled back just far enough to look Thomas square in the eye and repeated in a firm voice that left no room for doubt, "That man is you."

 

Thomas melted against him, his own heart beating wildly, and prayed to a God he thought had abandoned him long ago that Philip meant everything he said. Right now Thomas believed him, but he had believed others before and been let down. Still, he also added a word of thanks for bringing Philip into his life to that prayer. With one final kiss they exited the room. Keeping their hands off each other as they made their way downstairs was the hardest battle either had ever fought. Until they had to separate at the bottom of the stairs and go in opposite directions that was. They hovered a moment, exchanging longing looks, before the sound of approaching footsteps set them moving with one last look over their shoulders at each other.

 

  
Thomas practically floated down the stairs to the servants' hall, the taste of Philip still on his lips, the feel of his hands still on his hips. He knew he was smiling like some sort of dafty, but he didn't care, couldn't have stopped even if he'd wanted to. "My Thomas," Philip had called him. And it was true, he was his Thomas. He knew now he had never been anyone else's, would never be anyone else's. All in the space of a few short hours. And yet he felt like he'd always known Philip.

 

  
He was soon snapped from his musings by Mr. Carson's booming voice. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Barrow. I thought we were going to have to send out a search party for you."

 

  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," he said, not a bit of it. He smiled sweetly. No one was going to ruin his mood tonight, not even Carson. "But with two gentlemen to dress I've rather had my hands full this evening." The smile turned into a smirk as his mind wandered to all the same places his hands had earlier. Philip's shoulders. Neck. Face. Hair. Waist. Hips. Back. _Backside_... He smiled wider. Carson mumbled something about needing to get on, and Thomas was only too glad to retreat once again into reverie.

 

  
Dinner proved to be a test of resolve for Thomas and Philip alike. Their eyes kept wanting to travel to the other, but they knew they had to be careful, be discreet. It was easier said than done. Thomas struggled to retain his focus, to concentrate on what was going on around him. Twice Carson had to subtly prompt him to move along, to step forward with a dish. He didn't hide his displeasure, but still Thomas didn't care. Philip was watching him through those dark lashes of his, the hint of a smile ghosting across his handsome face. They were both remembering earlier and imagining later. What could Carson say to sully that?

 

  
But Carson and Philip weren't the only two watching Thomas. Philip, hyper-observant since his army days, and perhaps even before, noticed the way DeVore's arctic eyes followed the underbutler around the table, saw the flash of something ugly and twisted in the way he looked at him when Thomas leaned in to offer him the platter of food he was responsible for passing round the guests. He didn't like it, and not just as Thomas' paramour.

 

  
He studied the other guest surreptitiously. He wasn't unattractive, Philip supposed, but there was something ugly about him. A ruthlessness running through his features. An arrogance in his every look or gesture. There was something disturbing lurking just below the surface of this man, Philip knew it instinctively. And he had learned to trust his instincts. They had kept him alive in times of great danger. Now they screamed that Thomas was in danger, and that would not do; that would never do. He determined to keep a close watch on both men.

 

  
Dinner seemed to last an eternity to Thomas. He longed to be out of his restrictive livery and in the arms of the man he was sure he loved. But if dinner dragged out then the time spent in the servants' hall afterwards was interminable. Thomas watched as the servants finally got to have their own dinner, he too keyed up to do much more than pick at his food, and cleared away after themselves.

 

  
Some, like the kitchen staff, who were no longer needed that night slipped off to bed, bones weary, eyes heavy. A few took a little time to wind down first, maybe with a newspaper or a game of cards. Others like Thomas, Mr. Carson, Lady Mary's maid Anna and the visiting servants, all valets and ladies' maids, had to stay up until their employer or the guest they had been assigned to was ready for bed. Mr. Carson would then check over the house and if all was well lock up and retire for the evening. Finally, the party upstairs began to break up and the guests scattered to their various rooms, ladies' maids and valets in tow to help them get ready for bed.

 

  
Thomas felt a jolt of excitement shoot through him as he made his way upstairs. _Soon_ , he thought. But he still had DeVore to attend to before he could make his way to his beloved's chamber. He hurried along the corridor to DeVore's room, eager to get there quickly, so he might be done with him, and in Philip's arms all the sooner. In Philip's arms. In his mind he was already there when he was suddenly grabbed from behind, shoved into a small alcove just off the main hallway and thrown against the wall. All the air left his body at the impact of hitting the wall. Rough hands turned him to face his assailant and he found himself looking into the cold, dead eyes of a predator - DeVore.

 

  
Fear seized Thomas, but he tried to maintain his composure. "Mr. De.... Mr. DeVore, I was just on my way to your room. Was there something you needed, sir?" He could smell the alcohol on the aristocrat's breath and found himself wondering how many after dinner brandies the man had had on top of the wine at dinner and drinks beforehand.

 

  
"What makes you think _you'd_  have anything I need," DeVore sneered, but Thomas caught a terrifying glimmer in those frigid eyes. He froze under the glare of them. "But you do have something I want," the gentleman intoned ominously, bringing his hand up to settle menacingly at Thomas' soft throat. "And I always get what I want."

 

  
"Mr. DeVore, I really should... I really should be getting on, sir," Thomas stuttered, completely unnerved. God knows it wasn't the first time he'd been propositioned by another man, but this time felt different; this time he wasn't sure the other party would take 'no' for an answer...

 

  
"I... I still have Phil... I still have Mr. Lombard to attend to tonight and it's getting late, sir."

 

  
"Ah, yes, Mr. Lombard. _Philip_ ,” he spat. “You've given him what _he_ wanted, haven't you, _nancy boy,_ you little _lavender_ tease." Thomas had had those particular slurs thrown at him before but never with such force. He could feel the seething hatred bubbling away inside this man polite society deemed his better.

 

  
"I... I don't know what you mean, sir. You've had a long day and I think you're a little confused." Thomas knew he was babbling, but he didn't know what else to do. At first he had refrained from trying to physically remove DeVore's hands from him for fear of losing his job. He no longer cared about that. He just knew he had to get away from this man.

 

  
It was only now that he really registered how well built his tormentor was. He was about the same height as Thomas, but had a much more muscular frame. His neck was thick, shoulders wide and his biceps were straining against the sleeves of his dinner jacket. The hand still at Thomas' throat seemed twice the size of Thomas' own and had begun to squeeze hard, making the trapped man struggle for every breath. He tried to push DeVore away, but the heavier man didn't budge so much as an inch.

 

  
DeVore laughed, an ugly sound. "Oh, I'm not confused. I know exactly what I'm doing and so do you. You're coming with me, nancy boy, and you're going to give me everything I want. It's going to happen, it's just up to you whether you want to do things the easy way or the hard way." On the word 'hard' he squeezed Thomas' throat again and lifted him with such force Thomas found himself with only his toes still touching the ground. He spluttered for breath.

 

  
"Personally I wouldn't mind if you picked the hard way," DeVore spat out, leaning in close to Thomas' distressed face. "Because there's nothing I enjoy more than breaking scum like you. I know all sorts of games we can play, and they all end with you on your knees begging me to stop. And that's when the real fun begins."

 

  
Thomas had enough wherewithal to realise this wasn't about any particular desire for him, it was about a desire to force someone to do his will against their own. Nothing about his warped demands had anything to do with satisfying some sexual need, but rather some deep, twisted psychological one. Thomas could almost feel sorry for him if he wasn't so afraid. A man like this would never know love and Thomas knew what a tragedy that was, having gone without it for so much of his life. But right now fear won out over pity.

 

  
DeVore leered at the terrified servant before adding, "Oh, and if you think about telling anyone about this, just remember I'm the son of a baronet and you're merely a servant, and a known lavender one at that. I heard them talking about you, you know. They all know what you are, and they're all disgusted by it. Who do you think they'd believe? Hmm? You or me? All I'd have to say is that you made inappropriate advances towards me and I had to fend you off. With your reputation it wouldn't be a tough story to sell. And then you'd be out on your ear quicker than you can say 'Oscar Wilde', nancy boy."

 

  
Thomas was trembling all over. The pitiful whimper of a scared, trapped animal escaped his lips as he felt DeVore's sickly breath hit his face as hard as any fist as the hulking aristocrat tried to push in to bring their mouths together. Thomas managed to twist his head to the side and screwed his eyes shut, knowing he was only delaying the inevitable. It was then he heard the 'click'. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

 

  
His eyes flew open and he saw Philip standing behind DeVore and pointing a revolver at his head. Henry Talbot stood just behind Philip. Thomas felt relief flood his entire being.

 

  
"They might not take his word against yours, but I'm fairly certain they'll take his _and_  ours. Thomas and I may not be of such _noble_ birth as you," Philip said, emphasising the word 'noble' sardonically, "but Henry here is, and I'm a highly decorated war hero who in one operation alone saved the lives of the sons of three lords and two Members of Parliament so I am not without friends in high places. Thomas also served, as did Henry. You, however, I imagine were too young to join up. Not your fault, but the British do like their heroes and veterans. They also like underdogs and abhor bullies. So why don't you take your hands off him and walk away right now before I forget my manners and blow your brains out all over this charming little alcove."

 

  
DeVore had stiffened the moment he felt the gun barrel against his head. All the colour had drained from his previously red face, leaving him ashen. He slowly removed his hand from around Thomas' throat and stepped away from him. Thomas sagged to the ground, his legs unable to hold him.

 

  
"That's right," said Philip, steel running through his every word. "Now, you're going to go to your room and in the morning you're going to announce that you've forgotten a previous engagement and have to leave at once. And then you are never coming back here again. You're also going to dress yourself in the morning without Thomas' assistance. Do you think you can manage all that? Hmm? Because I know a few games too. Russian roulette, for example. How does that sound? Or have I made my point?"

 

  
"You won't get away with this, Lombard. None of you will."

 

  
"We'll take our chances. Now, start walking and don't stop until you're in your room. And I'd lock my door if I were you in case I start dwelling on what you tried to do here tonight and decide you shouldn't get off so easily."

 

  
The 'gentleman' glared at the three of them, not quite willing to give up all his bravado, but walked away. Philip waited until he heard the door closing down the corridor then hurled himself at Thomas' feet. Thomas saw the flare of rage in his dark eyes when they settled where Thomas assumed there would be an ugly, red handprint around the pristine skin of his elegant neck. He was moved beyond measure when he saw Philip clamp down on that same rage so he might tend to the distraught and quivering underbutler.

 

  
"Are you all right, Thomas? Are you hurt? God help him if he hurt you!"

 

  
"I'm... I'm fine," Thomas rasped out, voice hoarse and throat sore. "Thanks to you. Oh, Philip, I was so scared! I... I didn't know what to do! He was too strong, I couldn't get away from him!" His voice rose, verging on hysteria. Hot tears began to flow down his face.

 

  
"Shhh, my love, shhh," Philip gently shushed him. "It's all right, it's over. It's all right now. You're safe. I'm here, and I'm never letting anyone hurt you ever again."

 

  
"I didn't lead him on, Philip! I need you to know that. I didn't..."

 

  
Philip cut him off mid sentence. "I know, Thomas, I know. I never thought you did. Don't worry about that."

 

  
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cool wall. He really wanted to lean it on Philip's broad shoulder, but he was afraid someone might choose that exact moment to walk along the corridor and discover them. It would be typical of Thomas' luck. Then it hit him. _Christ! Henry Talbot!_ He was still standing there and he'd just heard every word they'd said! Heard Thomas call Philip by his first name, heard Philip call Thomas 'his love' and promise to never let anyone hurt him again!

 

  
Thomas' eyes flew open and flicked back and forth between the two other men, panic once again surging in them for all to see. Philip closed a hand over Thomas' and smiled warmly at him. "It's fine, Thomas. Henry might not share our proclivities, but he's a friend and he doesn't judge us on them either. He won't say anything."

 

At these words Talbot stepped forward and uttered his first words since arriving upon the harrowing scene. "No, indeed, Mr. Barrow. You have my word. It's none of my business, for one thing. And for another, Philip is here is one of the finest men I know. I owe my life to him. When you've spent some time in the trenches with a man you come to realise what the important things about him are. Can you rely on him, trust him, know he'll watch your back and lift your spirits when you need it? Who he loves comes secondary to the question 'is he capable of love?'.

 

  
Thomas' eyes cut to Philip's, two shining dark orbs, watching him softly, steadily, and felt sure he knew the answer to that question. Apparently Henry did too because he continued, "I already knew Philip was capable of loving his friends. From what I saw and heard in him when he asked me to accompany him here because he feared DeVore was going to try something like he just did, and from everything I've witnessed in the last few minutes I'd say he's capable of loving one special someone, to the very length and breadth and depth of his soul. From the way you're looking at him I'd say you are too, Mr. Barrow. I don't think it should matter what gender that someone is. I'm very glad you've found each other."

 

  
"Not half as glad as I am, sir," Thomas said, finding his smile and his voice again, eyes brimming with tears once more, this time at the earnestness he heard in Henry's words. His eyes met Philip's again, as they inevitably had to, pulled by some power greater than gravity ( _love_ , his heart whispered), and he couldn't help but notice they looked suspiciously wet themselves. He smiled wider and squeezed Philip's hand with his own.

 

  
"Well, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'll take my leave of you," Henry said, sensing he was surplus to requirements at this point. He'd served his purpose, and gladly (he was no fan of bullies, and what DeVore had been planning to do went far beyond bullying), but he knew the old saying about two's company, three's a crowd as well as anyone. Before he left, however, he added, "And if Mr. DeVore gives you any more trouble, Mr. Barrow, I am at your service."

 

  
"Thank you, Mr. Talbot. I appreciate everything you've done for me," and here Thomas glanced at Philip, a tremulous smile flitting across his face, before continuing, "for _us_ , tonight." He was genuinely grateful to this man who had seen fit to help him without asking for anything in return, without judgment, and whose words echoed something the late Matthew Crawley had once told Thomas about war having a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't. Maybe there really were a few decent toffs left in the world after all. The thought flitted across Thomas' mind that Lady Mary had landed herself another good one. Philip stood and offered Henry his hand, words of thanks spilling from his lips too. Henry shook his hand and assured them both no thanks were necessary, then with a nod of his head he retreated back to the wing of the house where his own room was situated.

 

When Henry had disappeared from view Philip turned his attention back to Thomas. "Can you get up?" Philip inquired. "Can you make it to my room?"

 

  
Thomas shot him a scared little look. Just minutes before making his way to Philip's room and spending the night there making love had been all he wanted, but right now the shock of his encounter with DeVore was still working on him and while he knew Philip was a different kind of man he wasn't sure he was up to engaging in carnal relations tonight.

 

  
Philip read his look and smiled reassuringly. "It's all right, my love. We won't be doing anything tonight but talking and resting. You've had a horrible experience and not exactly one conducive to romance. Tonight, all I want to do is hold you in my arms and make you feel safe."

 

  
Thomas knew he meant every word. He got to his feet shakily, with Philip's help, and they made their way to the bedroom. Once inside Philip locked the door, set the revolver on the dresser and turned to take Thomas in his arms. Once again tears flowed down the underbutler's drawn face and he clung to Philip like he never wanted to let go.

 

  
Philip smoothed his hair and murmured soothing words in his ear. When Thomas finally stopped crying Philip led him to the bed and sat him down. He sank to one knee and began undoing Thomas' shoelaces.

 

  
"He ruined it, didn't he?" Thomas said, out of the blue. "Our first night together, and he ruined it."

 

  
"No, he didn't ruin anything. You're here, you're safe, we're together, that's all that matters, Thomas."

 

  
"But we only have a week and he's stolen a night from us, robbed us of precious hours we could have spent in each other's arms."

 

  
"I don't know about you, but I still intend to spend tonight in each other's arms. And what's all this about a week?" Philip enquired, looking genuinely perplexed.

 

  
"We only have this week and then you'll be gone and we'll just be ships that passed in the night, maybe never seeing each other again, unless you get invited back."

 

  
"Thomas," he sighed, "Thomas, what are you talking about? This is it for me. _You're_ it for me! I'm not walking away after a week. At least, not without you."

 

  
"Don't make promises you don't mean, Philip. I'd rather we were honest with each other. I'm not asking you for anything but this week. I don't expect anything from you."

 

  
"Well, you should!" Philip's voice rose, but at the startled expression on Thomas' face he seemed to remember the trauma his beloved had just gone through and went silent. Thomas watched him quietly. Philip still looked like he felt there was something that needed to be said, something Thomas needed to understand. He got up and started to pace the room like a caged tiger. His voice carefully modulated he began to speak. "Do you think this is something I do with every pretty face I meet?! You're special to me, Thomas. You have been from the very first moment I laid eyes on you. I know that sounds shalłow, like I only want you for your looks, but it went deeper than that; it goes deeper than that. I thought you were so handsome, but with such sorrow in your beautiful eyes. But wit and humour and intelligence too. You bewitched me, body and mind, heart and soul. Right from the start I wanted to know everything about you, every single thing, big or small. I wanted to revel in that wit and humour, spar with that intelligence. I wanted to take that sorrow and replace it with hope and love and joy. I still want that. And a week isn't going to cut it. It's going to take at least a lifetime." He stopped pacing in front of Thomas and sank to his knees again, taking Thomas' still trembling hands in his. "Don't you want that too?"

 

  
"Oh, Philip, of course I do! But it's impossible! I'm a servant, you're a gentleman, for all intents and purposes, my life is here at Downton, yours is in London. What would we do, where would we go?"

 

  
"Anywhere we want, Thomas! I'm not a rich man, but I have some savings and there are ways of making money if you don't mind getting your hands a little dirty. We're both relatively young and fit. We'd manage. And I'd always take care of you, my love, always! London is different from Downton. It's big and it's sprawling and people don't care about other people's business. We could get lost there, together, just the two of us."

 

  
"I... I don't know, Philip. Downton is all I know now. I've spent the better part of my life here."

 

  
"But you're not happy here, are you? Not now, anyway. Were you ever? I saw it your eyes this afternoon. You're not happy here, Thomas. But you could be, in London, with me! I own a little flat there. It's modest, but it's mine. It could be ours. All you have to say is yes."

 

  
"But what would I even do there? I couldn't expect you to keep me forever. I wouldn't want you to. I have some pride, I'd want to pay my own way. And I'm trained for nothing but service and fixing clocks! Service is a dying profession and clockmaking isn't exactly a mass industry crying out for workers! And what if you decided you didn't want me after all and ditched me? I'd be out of a home, out of a job, and out of options." He dropped his head forlornly, unable to meet Philip's eyes.

 

  
"That's never going to happen. I'm always going to want you, Thomas."

 

  
"But how do you know?? We've only just met! We know nothing about each other, not really."

 

  
"I just know. I knew the second I saw you. You did too, don't deny it, I know you did. And I know you, just like you know me. I can't explain it. It's just something I know, deep in my bones, like I know my name is Philip Lombard and that the sun rises in the east. Except you're my sun now, Thomas."

 

  
"And you're my moon and stars, Philip," Thomas found himself replying without thinking. But as he said it, he knew it was true. He knew he'd go anywhere with this man, _his_ man. Philip saw him make this realisation and smiled beatifically. Thomas knew he was a goner.

 

  
"I suppose I could say you offered me a job as your valet. They know you don't have one."

 

  
"Say whatever you want, I'll back you up."

 

  
"I would say they'll think it's awfully bad form of you, poaching servants, but I think they'll be so glad to get rid of me they'll let it pass unremarked upon this time."

 

  
"Let them pass remarks. It's their loss. Their loss, but my gain." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Thomas' forehead and then to each of his hands.

 

  
"Come now, let's get some sleep. We'll talk more in the morning. It's been a long day and you've had a nasty shock." He patted Thomas' hands and stood up. Philip helped Thomas out of his jacket and waistcoat before shrugging out of his own dinner jacket. Thomas unbuttoned his own shirt and watched as Philip changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms and returned to the bed bare-chested. Thomas kept his trousers and undershirt on. He saw the murderous look in Philip's eyes as he took in the marks that were already turning to bruises around Thomas' neck. Thomas closed his own weary eyes against the pain he saw in Philip's. He didn't expect the kiss, so soft he almost wondered if he'd imagined it, Philip bestowed on the most livid mark, left by a thumb, crushed hard against the base of his throat. His eyelids fluttered open, but Philip had stepped away again, reaching the top of the bed in a couple of quick strides.

 

  
Turning down the blankets he reached out a hand to Thomas, still sitting on the bottom of the bed, looking over his shoulder at Philip. He gladly accepted the outstretched hand and made his way to the side of the bed. Philip slid in between the sheets and scooted over, leaving room for Thomas to get in beside him. Once he did, Philip moved closer and encircled him in his arms, drawing Thomas' back tight against his warm chest. Thomas, although still shaken from his ordeal at the brutish hands of DeVore, had never felt safer. He drifted off to sleep, worn out physically, mentally and emotionally, Philip's warm breath a gentle balm against his neck and his arms a haven like none Thomas had ever known before. Just before he succumbed totally to his exhaustion it occurred to him for the first time since his mother died that 'home' wasn't a place, it was a person. It didn't matter where they ended up, with Philip by his side Thomas would never be homeless again.

 

  
Thomas woke early the next morning, as was his custom, no alarm clock needed, years of early rising drummed into him from a life spent in service. The warmth he felt against his back and the long fingers running tenderly through his hair, however, were definitely _not_ customary. He was not the only early riser it seemed. He turned from his side on to his back and found Philip raised on one elbow, gazing down at him with such a look of love and what could only be described as awe on his face, it took Thomas' breath away.

 

  
Philip smiled down at him. "Morning, sleepyhead. How are you feeling today?"

 

  
The memory of what had happened the night before flooded back to Thomas and he felt hot tears begin to prick his eyes again. Philip immediately brought his hand to Thomas' face, stroking it lovingly, anchoring him in the here and now. The here and now where he was safe and loved. He leaned into Philip's touch and managed a smile up at him.

 

  
"I'm feeling better now," he said, shifting over to snuggle against the Irishman's bare chest, where he felt as well as heard the deep, delighted chuckle that rumbled out of Philip as Thomas curled into him. Philip dropped a welcome kiss to his temple before lying back and taking him in his arms again. Thomas settled with one arm under him and the other resting on Philip's chest, Philip's hand on top of his, thumb tracing back and forth hypnotically over Thomas' skin. His head found a place on that same broad chest, somewhere just above Philip's heart and the thought crossed his mind he could stay there forever.

 

  
"Good. That's good." Another kiss, this time to the top of his head.

 

  
"Thank you, Philip."

 

  
"For what?"

 

  
Thomas huffed out a laugh. "For what?! For what, he asks me!" This time it was he who raised himself up on one elbow, reluctantly lifting his head from the spot on Philip's chest he had already begun to think of as _his_ spot, his hand slipping down to settle on Philip's toned stomach. He locked eyes with Philip, willing him to hear the sincerity behind his words. "For finding me. For coming into my life. For seeing me; for saving me. And not just last night, although, yes, that too, but you can't know how empty my life was before you. God, was that really only yesterday!" He smiled wistfully, but then he lowered his gaze, not wanting Philip to see the still fresh pain in his eyes as his voice dropped too and he whispered, "I had nothing, not even hope anymore. I was so lonely. I... I thought about..." He swallowed nervously, then in a rush blurted out his confession. "I thought about ending it all. About how there'd be no one who cared if I did. No one who'd miss me."

 

  
Thomas cringed, but made himself look up at Philip again, afraid of what he might see in his eyes. Would there be pity there? Or contempt? Would he think him weak and pathetic? A coward? Nothing could have prepared him for what he actually saw there. Sadness, yes, but so much more. Love. Understanding. Compassion. Once again this beautiful man before him took his breath away, in the best possible way.

 

  
Philip squeezed the hand that still lay across his stomach and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. His voice came out choked with emotion, but his message was clear. "You're never going to be lonely again, Thomas. You're never going to feel that hopeless again. Because you're loved. You. Are. Loved. And I intend spending every day of the rest of my life making sure you know that. But I need you to promise me one thing, just one thing. If you ever again have thoughts about...," he paused, swallowing down the emotions that were threatening to overtake him, "...about doing that, about ending it, that you'll tell me so I can remind you that there is someone who'd care, who'd miss you. Promise me. _Please_."

 

  
That word again, 'please', tugging on Thomas' heartstrings. He nodded, a soft, "I promise," spilling from his lips before he pressed them to the back of Philip's hand that was still wrapped around his. Philip squeezed Thomas' hand once more before letting go to raise his own hand to Thomas' face and brush his knuckles softly along the pale contour of Thomas' cheek.

 

  
Thomas smiled and let the hand that still lay on Philip's stomach rub little circles there. His breath hitched in his throat as he suddenly became very aware of the fact Philip was bare-chested while he remained in his undershirt. That would not do. _Oh no, that would not do at all._ Turning his head he kissed Philip's hand before easing ruefully out of its reach, touched out of all proportion by the little sound of protest that escaped Philip's lips as he did so. "Patience, my love," he cooed, as he began wrestling with his undershirt.

 

  
"What are you doing, Thomas?" Philip asked dumbly and it was testament to how much of a changed man Thomas was that he didn't even consider snapping back surely it was obvious.

 

  
"Too many clothes," he replied instead. "Too many clothes and I want to feel you against me, your skin against mine. So I'm taking off my undershirt." The last bit was muffled slightly by the said offending garment as Thomas finally wrangled control of it and wrenched it off over his head, flinging it as violently across the room as if it'd just insulted his mother's memory. He had thought once he was rid of it he would fling himself as wildly against Philip and press every inch of available skin they had between them together. But now he was divested of it he found all he could do was stare at the man who had swept into his life like a force of nature and blown away the stale, bitter remnants of a life Thomas knew he couldn't have survived much longer. In its place he offered one of hope and love, joy and the clean, fresh scent of the air the morning after a rainstorm.

 

  
Finally though the urge to look was surpassed by that to touch and he placed his right hand back where it had previously lay on that taut, gorgeous stomach. He let it travel up the delectable torso, taking its time, teasing and appreciating in equal measure, his eyes never leaving Philip's. That is, until he reached his face where his fingers found Philip's mouth and his eyes fell to those succulent lips which he began tracing with something bordering on reverence. He watched, mesmerised, as Philip once again took gentle hold of his hand and started placing more sweet kisses on his fingertips, just as he had the night before. The kisses were chaste, but Thomas' thoughts were not, heat building within him with every touch of Philip's lips. He wanted to know what those lips would feel like on other parts of his body, on every part of his body. He needed to know. The look on his face was that of a starving man standing before a feast. Thomas didn't intend to fast any longer and that mouth was going to be his first course.

 

  
Thomas thought Philip must have read the look on his face because he stopped his kisses, seemed to stop _breathing_  for a second, before a whispered, "Are you sure?", fell from his lips. Thomas grinned, as predatory and wolfish a grin as any Philip had ever given him, and nodded.

 

  
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," he said, voice confident, leaving no room for doubt. Philip returned his grin, and, oh, but if that wasn't going to be the first thing Thomas tasted. He leaned down, crushing their mouths together in a hungry, desperate kiss, claiming Philip as his own. Philip responded in kind, arms falling around Thomas and hauling him over on top of him. Thomas went more than willingly, moaning at the feel of Philip's naked chest beneath his own, Philip's hands running possessively up and down his back, Thomas' tangling in Philip's hair.

 

  
When they eventually pulled apart to breathe Thomas wasted no time in turning his focus to Philip's neck and throat, lavishing them with little nips and loving licks and open-mouthed kisses. He had never tasted anything sweeter. Not even Mrs. Patmore’s famous sticky toffee pudding or jam tarts that Thomas loved so well came close. The soft moans escaping Philip's lips only served to fuel the fire burning in Thomas. His hands were roaming all over Philip's chest, seemingly unable to stay in one place, as if he wanted to chart every inch of this new territory he had stumbled upon and commit it to memory, as if he was afraid it could all be taken from him at any second. Thomas knew it could. Their love was deemed illegal, immoral, against the laws of man and God. But not even the devil himself nor the entire heavenly host could have made Thomas repent this moment, this man, this love.

 

  
One of his hands trailed over Philip's nipple making him jerk involuntarily, the simple brush of fingers sending a jolt of electricity straight through him. Thomas smiled wickedly, his hand stilling above the little nub of flesh that had caused such a reaction in his lover. Slowly, achingly, achingly slowly he traced little circles around it, his eyes on Philip's flushed face, not missing the hiss the other man couldn't suppress.

 

  
" _Please_ ," Philip choked out, and at the magic word, _their_ magic word, Thomas melted, relenting, stopping his finger's torturous dance and bringing his mouth to the area that had proved so responsive to his touch, tongue lapping, teeth nipping, lips sucking alternately in a maddening barrage of sensation. He felt Philip arch beneath him, driving upward, seeking what contact he could find. But Thomas held him down, one hand on his firm bicep, the other taunting Philip's other nipple, before he took pity and moved over to lavish it with his mouth's attention. Philip's hands had come to rest, one on the small of Thomas' back, holding him close, the other tangled in his hair, raking back and forth through it, as he moaned Thomas' name over and over again, like a prayer for forgiveness on the lips of a dying man.

 

  
Thomas now sought out those same lips as a sinner seeks salvation; a pilgrim in need of absolution. He poured all of himself into the kiss, everything he had been and done and felt. It was hard and rough and lawless. It was his confession and he only hoped it was enough for Philip to really hear him and understand. And then suddenly it was soft and gentle and yearning. It was everything Thomas was now, here, with Philip, and he knew Philip had heard him, had accepted everything he was and loved him anyway. It wasn't just absolution, it was benediction. He was a worshipper and his idol had blessed him, returned his adulation.

 

  
Thomas knew whatever happened from here on out he would always remember this kiss as the moment he finally gave himself over completely to someone and they had responded by giving him all of them. _Philip_ had responded by giving him all of him. It was there in that kiss. Had been there in every kiss and look, every touch and embrace, they had already shared, if only Thomas had trusted enough to see it, to believe it. But he saw it now. He trusted now. He _believed._ For the first time in his life, his mother aside, Thomas Barrow believed he was loved, really believed it. And he wanted to cry with happiness. Everything he had suffered, everything he had gone through, had been leading him to this moment and it was all worth it. All the fear and heartache and rejection had been worth it.

 

  
As they finally broke the kiss in need of air, but stayed only a hair's breadth apart, Philip whispered breathlessly against his lips, "You really are feeling better, aren't you!" Thomas laughed and pushed in for another quick kiss. As he moved he became aware of the undeniable physical evidence of Philip's arousal pressing against his thigh. He was sure Philip must also feel the corresponding hardness in Thomas' own trousers. He spared a glance at the little clock on the bedside table and sighed. He would have to be on his way soon. There wasn't time for all the things he wanted to do with Philip. _But there was a little time..._

  
With a warm, loving smile he looked into Philip's eyes and ran his hand down over his torso once more. When he reached the waistband of Philip's pyjama bottoms he slipped his hand under the silk and found steel wrapped in velvet. Philip gasped at the touch of Thomas' hand as it curled around him in a firm but gentle grip and slowly began to move up and down his not inconsiderable length in a steady, heady rhythm, only interrupted occasionally by Thomas pausing a moment to run his thumb over the sensitive head. Still his eyes never left Philip's face, revelling in the way the dark eyes were rendered even darker with lust and want and in the way his breathing had quickened, breaths coming thick and fast, Adam's apple bobbing up and down uncontrollably as Philip swallowed back the moans he knew would be much too loud in the silence of the early morning quiet of the Abbey. Still Thomas kept up his rhythm, his own eyes bright with desire and greedily drinking in every look, every sigh, every moan his lover gifted him with. He wanted to send Philip headfirst into ecstasy like Alice tumbling into Wonderland. He sensed it wouldn't be long now and his movements sped up.

 

  
"Thomas... Thomas, I'm... I'm..."

 

  
Philip didn't get to finish that sentence, his breath cut off by the feeling of Thomas releasing his grasp only to pull his pyjama bottoms down just enough to allow him to slip his warm mouth over Philip's throbbing manhood and swallow down the evidence of their passion. Thomas hadn't planned on doing so but upon realising how close Philip was to climax he thought it prudent not to leave traces of their encounter on clothes prying maids or laundresses might see. It wasn't anything he hadn't done before but truth be told it wasn't his favourite activity to engage in. This time though it felt different. Everything felt different with Philip. He let the spent member slip from his mouth and smiled, thinking how many more mornings like this lay ahead of them, already planning to wake Philip up this way tomorrow morning, and the one after, and the one after that. He couldn't resist dropping a soft kiss to the consummate proof of his lover's maleness before slowly crawling up the sated body still trembling with little aftershocks to settle once again on his spot on Philip's still heaving chest.

 

  
When his breathing had regulated again Philip eased his hand below Thomas' chin and raised his face to his for a long, languid kiss. "Thank you," was alł he could say when the kiss ended.

 

  
"It was my pleasure," purred Thomas.

 

  
"Oh no, it was definitely mine!" Philip professed amusedly, and they both dissolved into giggles.

 

  
But once again real life asserted itself and as the giggling subsided Thomas sighed and said, "I have to go now, Philip."

 

  
"What? No! Stay a little longer," Philip beseeched. Then grinning wantonly he added, "Besides, I haven't returned the favour yet..."

 

  
Thomas groaned, delicious images of Philip's dark mane of hair bowed between Thomas' legs while his exquisite mouth engulfed him floating through his mind. "As lovely as that sounds it's going to have to wait I'm afraid."

 

  
This time it was Philip who groaned and Thomas grinned. "Patience, love. We have all the time in the world." As he said it he realised the truth of his words and grinned wider. They had the rest of their lives for mornings like this. With one final kiss he rolled himself reluctantly out of the bed and hurriedly dressed. It was only when he had finished tying his shoelaces and stood up that it occurred to him he would have to pass DeVore's room on his way to the staircase that would take him to the servants' quarters. _What if he's waiting for me? Waiting to get me on my own again?_

 

  
His fear showed on his face and Philip who had been watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, sleep once again threatening to overtake him in the wake of their early morning activities, snapped instantly to full alertness again.

 

  
"What is it? What's wrong, Thomas?" His voice was full of concern, but a thought seemed to strike him and his next sentence came out a little shaky. "You're not... having regrets, are you?"

 

  
Thomas felt his heart swell within him and swallowing around the terror the thought of encountering DeVore again had instilled in him he smiled gently down at the figure in the bed, so strong and yet so vulnerable in the face of the fear that Thomas was having second thoughts about their relationship.

 

  
"Never about you, Philip. Never about us."

 

  
"What is then? And don't tell me it's nothing because I know that's not true."

 

  
Thomas sighed and gave in, knowing it was useless to try to hide anything from Philip.

 

  
"I'm just a little nervous about having to pass his room, that's all." He couldn't bring himself to say his name, but he knew he didn't have to. Philip knew exactly who he meant and was already out of the bed and throwing clothes on.

 

  
"What are you doing?" Thomas asked, confused.

 

  
"I'm getting dressed so I can accompany you to wherever you feel safe," Philip replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

  
"Philip, you don't have to do that."

 

  
Philip turned to face him and a dangerous gleam ran through his eyes.

 

  
"If there's even the slightest chance of you being hurt then of course I have to."

 

  
His tone indicated he would brook no argument and in all honesty Thomas was relieved. The events of last night were still fresh in his mind and the bruises were still fresh on his throat. Which reminded him, _would he be able to hide them?_ He went to the mirror and inspected his reflection, running his hand tentatively over his tender throat. He had one shirt with a collar a little higher than the others he was reasonably sure would cover the damage. The feeling of strong arms slipping around his waist pulled him from his thoughts and he leaned back into the warmth of Philip's embrace, sliding his hands over those around him.

 

  
"Ready, my love?" Philip enquired.

 

  
"Ready," Thomas answered, smiling at the term of endearment he'd never get tired of hearing. With one last squeeze and a kiss to his cheek Philip released him and they headed for the door, Philip slipping the revolver off the dresser and into his pocket again, just in case. It was an unnecessary precaution, however, as they reached the staircase to the servants' quarters without incident. Thomas insisted they part there, feeling sure DeVore would never lower himself to enter that part of the house. After a quick glance around Philip leaned in and kissed Thomas again before returning to his room. Thomas sighed and headed to his own little room, his heart full and his head whirling with thoughts of everything that had happened in the last twenty four hours. _Less than twenty four hours,_ his brain reminded him. He shook his head, still reeling from the unexpectedness of events, but smiled happily all the same.

 

  
Once inside his own room he quickly discarded last night's clothes, washed and brushed his teeth at the little sink in the corner and dressed afresh. Still wary of bumping into DeVore while alone, however, he sat down on the bed when he was finished dressing and waited patiently for the sound of one of the other servants making their way downstairs. He didn't have to wait long and if the young hall boy (Thomas couldn't remember his name) was surprised to receive such a warm, "Good morning!", from the usually taciturn underbutler he hid it well. They parted company outside the boot room, Thomas again sure DeVore would not show his face in a part of the house that fell more in the domain of the servants. He continued on to the kitchen where the sound of Mr. Carson grumbling angrily reached him before he even entered the room.

 

  
"Honestly! A prior engagement, he says! Only arrived yesterday, put us to the trouble of preparing one of the little-used rooms for him and then announces he has a prior engagement, no less! I ask you!"

 

  
Thomas held his breath, knowing it had to be DeVore Carson was scolding about. He hadn't expected him to have informed the butler he was leaving quite this early, but he wasn't complaining. The sooner that man was out of the house the better. He continued into the kitchen and tried to look surprised when Carson informed him of DeVore's imminent departure. He also did his best to conceal his relief when he was told the departing guest didn't require his services that morning. He had 'requested' (Thomas knew Carson well enough to know he really meant 'ordered') breakfast be sent to his room and the car ready to take him to the station in time for the next train back to London.

 

  
Thomas had a little momentary panic when Carson announced he needed someone to carry DeVore's luggage to the car, but thankfully Mr. Molesley had reappeared that morning, his father on the mend again it seemed, and volunteered for the job. Before he had taken time off to tend to his father he had volunteered for every job recently Thomas noted, and he knew why. Molesley was in love with Phyllis Baxter and missing her as he did he tried to find any way to put the time in until she returned. Before Thomas might have sneered at the man's pining devotion, but no more. Now he felt a sense of solidarity with a man he once found ridiculous. _Love has turned me into a soppy fool,_ he thought, but found he couldn't rue the fact one iota. Not when that love was returned, and he felt certain it was. A smile once again graced his features when he thought about the brave, kind (not to mention handsome), Irishman upstairs who had come into his life so unexpectedly and turned his whole world upside down. Or rather, right side up. Thomas wasn't at all sure he deserved him, but he'd be damned if he was going to let him go. _“Never look a gift horse in the mouth, lad."_ That had been a favourite saying of his father’s and one Thomas had taken to heart.

 

 

Then DeVore was gone and Thomas had managed to avoid having to see him again. He had no way of knowing it at the time, but he would never have to worry about seeing him ever again, for DeVore was killed a few months later, thrown from his horse while out fox hunting, sustaining a broken neck and dying instantly. _Another gift horse,_ Thomas had thought wryly. He would like to have said he was sorry, but in his heart of hearts he felt the world was a better place without such a man in it.

 

  
But before any of that, Thomas and Philip had to work out what they were going to do next. Thomas had suggested he tell his employers Philip had taken him on as valet and Philip approved the plan, but with the mood Carson was in after DeVore's hasty exit Thomas decided it was best to wait before handing in his notice. Before long the bell for Philip's room rang and with Carson's blessing Thomas hurried upstairs, supposedly to help him dress, but secretly he hoped there'd be a great deal more kissing involved than dressing. He wasn't disappointed. And if he returned to the kitchen half an hour later looking a little ruffled, well, no one seemed to notice.

 

  
The rest of the morning passed in a whirl and Thomas saw little of either Carson or Philip. He was, however, privy to a very interesting conversation among a small group of the upstairs crowd at lunchtime. Tom Branson was bemused by DeVore's behaviour. He had come to Downton with the sole purpose of discussing going into business selling motor cars with Tom and Henry Talbot, only to withdraw so suddenly, and Branson was at a loss as to why. No one believed the tale of the previous engagement. Henry, though, knew exactly why DeVore had taken his leave so quickly and while discretion forbade him from sharing the reason with the others present (much to Thomas' immense relief), he took the opportunity to point out that they had had a lucky escape.

 

  
"After all, going into business with someone is rather like going into a marriage. You are tied together, for better or worse, and you have to trust your partner or what's the point? No, if this DeVore fellow can't even be relied upon to stay for the necessary discussions and negotiations going into business together requires, then how could we trust him if we actually did go into business together? Mark my words, Tom, it's for the best."

 

  
"Maybe so," piped up Branson, "but we still need a third for our business, Henry. We haven't enough between us to get it off the ground, not without more money and I know you're as loathe to ask anyone for a loan as I am. Your male pride won't allow you to ask your wife for money and mine won't let me ask my father-in-law, so here we are."

 

  
And it was then Thomas practically saw the lightbulb go off above Philip's head. He had been sitting quietly up until that point, listening to what the others had to say, a black look crossing his face at every mention of DeVore's name, but now he looked simply radiant, a plan forming in his mind. He glanced up at Thomas, somehow sure he would know what was in his mind, seeking his agreement before saying anything. Thomas shot him a furtive smile and nodded almost imperceptibly. Philip grinned back much less discreetly in return, before turning his attention back to the table and Tom and Henry's discussion.

 

  
"I don't suppose I could throw my hat in the ring, could I?" Philip enquired. "I do have some experience with motor cars and a good head on my shoulders. I don't have a vast fortune, it's true, but I do have some savings and I could always sell my flat in London."

 

  
Henry beamed at him across the table. "What about it, Tom? I know you don't know Philip here very well, but I can vouch for him. I wouldn't be sitting here today if it wasn't for him. He's calm under pressure, has the best instincts of anyone I've ever met and he's as wily as a fox when it comes to getting out of sticky situations."

 

  
Tom seemed to ponder for a moment, but Thomas didn't feel nervous. Branson was the type to give anyone a chance, and Philip being a fellow Irishman couldn't hurt, plus with Henry vouching for him to boot it was almost a foregone conclusion he'd agree to Philip's suggestion. And agree he did, with a smile, a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. Thomas meanwhile stood by, watching from the sidelines as his new life took shape, but it was all right. He felt as if the universe was aligning, as if everything was falling into place. He only had to wait a little longer and soon he'd be stepping over the threshold of that new life, ready to take centre stage, rather than standing outside the window of someone else's happiness, looking in.

 

  
That night as he helped Philip change for dinner they discussed their next move. It was decided it was better if Thomas didn't give his notice right away, not until Philip had returned to London and made the necessary arrangements to put his flat on the market. Tom Branson and Henry had already agreed Philip could live in the flat above the showroom of their garage. That had been Henry's suggestion and Thomas hadn't missed his stressing it was a two bedroom flat. That would make it much easier to pretend Thomas was simply his live-in manservant when the time came. Because as much as they both wanted to live together right away Thomas and Philip knew they would have to wait until the business was up and running and proving a success before Philip could justify taking on a valet and indeed before he could afford to support both himself and Thomas.

 

  
Fate, though, it seemed was on their side. Tom Branson knew a great deal about cars and bookkeeping. Henry's contacts in the world of car enthusiasts were a godsend. Philip was adept at handling suppliers and creditors and debtors alike. But none of them could make a sale to save their life. Which was where Thomas came in.

 

 

Once Tom Branson had agreed to take Philip on as a partner in the business Philip had immediately set the ball rolling on selling his flat. He'd contacted a friend in London who worked in the property market and instructed him to put the flat up for sale. He had stayed at Downton for the week as originally planned, but then had to return to London to wrap up his affairs there. It was a tearful Thomas who had said goodbye to him in his room, the room in which they had shared so much in such a short time, the morning he departed for the capital. Philip's eyes were shining with unshed tears too, but he took the time to kiss the tears from Thomas’ face as he reassured him he would return soon and their new life could begin. It was all either of them could do not to break down as Philip got into the car when it arrived to take him to the station and Thomas put his luggage in the back. Parting like strangers without so much as a backward glance in front of prying eyes when only minutes before they had been exchanging heartfelt kisses and vows of neverending devotion behind the privacy of a locked door.

 

  
The time had crawled until they could be together again. Philip had written, of course. Unsigned letters, filled with innocuous trivialities, in case their correspondence ever fell into the wrong hands. Thomas longed to receive a real love letter just once in his life (the long ago burned letters from the Duke didn't qualify as they contained more declarations of lust than love), written proof of Philip's love for him that he could take into his hand at any time and be glad for, but they had agreed it was too dangerous and it soothed Thomas just to know he was still in Philip's thoughts. He only had to be patient a little longer and then the words he yearned to hear would be whispered directly into his ear in that Irish brogue that sent shivers up his spine and set his heart alight. Henry Talbot also took telephone calls from Philip and unflinchingly passed on messages that made Thomas blush down to the soles of his feet.

 

  
But finally the day came to welcome Philip back from London, after he had finalised the sale of his flat for a tidy sum. They had been apart for weeks and the separation had been hard on both of them. Thomas had wangled it so his half day coincided with the day of Philip's return. Knowing that Tom Branson was tied up at Downton all day with estate business, he knew it was safe to nip into the showroom to see his lover (although, in fairness, he suspected the wise, kindhearted Tom was well aware of their relationship and passed no judgment on it). Henry Talbot would be there, but he would raise no objections, Thomas knew. He had proved himself a true friend to them both and genuinely backed their relationship. It was another new experience for Thomas. Others had tolerated what he was in the past but Henry actively supported it. Life was constantly surprising him in all sorts of wonderful ways these days Thomas found.

 

  
These were the thoughts going through his head when he arrived at the showroom in time to see both Philip and Henry botching a potential sale. Without thinking about it he effortlessly slipped into the same easy patter he had perfected as a youth working in his father's shop and before anyone knew it he had clinched the sale with the customer eating out of the palm of his hand. When he turned back to look at Philip and Henry after shaking the buyer's hand he saw the lightbulb go off above both their heads this time. "Thomas," Henry said, stepping forward and slapping him on the back, "how would you like a job?"

 

  
And that was how after working his notice at the Abbey, Thomas found himself moving his scant possessions into the second bedroom of the flat above the showroom. He may have had no intention of ever sleeping in it, but it was important to maintain appearances in case anyone ever tried stirring up trouble for him and Philip. It wasn't unreasonable that two bachelors should choose to pool their resources and share a living space, especially one so convenient to their work, but they both knew there would be those who would guess at the nature of their relationship. Without proof, though, there was nothing they could do but gossip. They were ready to face that together, and as long as they were discreet they hoped they could live their lives in peace.

 

  
As Thomas drifted off to sleep, warm and sated, in Philip's arms that first night in their new home together, the bed well and truly christened, he was at last able to put a name to the strange, fluttering sensation that had been residing in his chest the last few months since he had met Philip. _Hope_. It was hope. His last thought before sleep claimed him was one that brought him more peace than he had ever known - he was finally home. The rest would take care of itself. After all, it's not against the law to hope, is it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thanks for reading. I hope it made some kind of sense and you got some enjoyment out of it. And, really, do yourself a favour and go Google pictures of Aidan Turner in that towel, if you haven't already. Trust me, you won't regret it. And even if you've already seen them go do it again anyway. Go on, you deserve it. Feel free to come say, "Hi!", either in the comments or on tumblr, where I'm also known as novemberhush. Thanks again. :-)


End file.
